


Be Elusive, But Don't Walk Far

by blithelybonny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Moral Ambiguity, Open Marriage, Polyamory, Rock Stars, rock star!Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2274267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a bit hard to reconcile--Sebastian Stark is a demon from the depths of hell, and Mr. Malfoy is Scorpius’s dear old dad, but Albus wants him, nonetheless.</p><p><b>Age Disparity:</b> Draco (43) / Albus (18)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Elusive, But Don't Walk Far

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the mods for this fabulous fest and to my beta M for helping me polish this puppy. The story is more than a little Al-centric, and a little tropey as well, but it’s still very much a Draco/Al love fest. <3
> 
> Further, this story would not exist without the amazing film _Velvet Goldmine_ (everyone should stop what they’re doing and watch it immediately, or perhaps after they’ve read this…). Title comes from the David Bowie song "We Are the Dead", and _Bad Faith_ sing songs by Philip Selway, T.Rex, the New York Dolls and the Goblin King himself. No copyright infringement intended.

Albus knows he doesn’t do it like the other boys do it.

Having spent his formative years in a dorm with four other boys, he knows how they wank. How they rush to their beds, draw the curtains and forget the Imperturbable Charms in their haste to get their grabby hands down their pants. They just want to get off as quickly as possible, soothe the impossible ache in their tightening muscles. Though he’s never actually seen it, Albus can imagine it -- and has, in vivid detail. They fist their cocks, squeezing and twisting their wrists, inelegantly, hurriedly, anything to induce the orgasm that’s been building for hours or minutes, they honestly don’t know because one minute they’re in class answering questions about potions or plants and the next they’re at attention, desperately trying to hide their arousal behind their desk or within their robes.

Albus doesn’t do it like that. He doesn’t begrudge them their haste, of course, and sometimes, he has to join them in their adolescent fumblings because no matter how much he tries to be, he’s not immune to the pangs of lust that pop up at inopportune moments. But when he can, when he has the time to spend, he allows himself the exquisite pleasure of the little death.

That’s what the French call it. He knows that because of _him_.

Albus shuts the curtains on his four-poster bed, seals them with a spell and casts the all-important Imperturbable Charm. He doesn’t want anyone to share this moment with him. It’s his alone -- well, his and Sebastian’s.

With a flick of his wrist, the record player he keeps under his bed switches on and the crackling that accompanies the few brief moments before the song starts sends a shiver of anticipation throughout Albus’s body. His cock twitches -- it knows what’s coming -- and he smiles softly.

It’s always the same song for this, and as the sultry opening guitar notes ring out to begin “By Some Miracle,” Albus skims his hands down his body, trailing over his chest and sliding between his thighs. 

Even though it’s over ten years old at this point, Albus likes to think that Sebastian wrote this song about him. How else can he explain the way it makes him feel?

He divests himself of his trousers and pants during the intro, taking his time but still moving quickly enough that by the time Sebastian starts to sing, he’s naked. He’s also achingly hard because it really only takes a few moments of hearing Sebastian’s silky voice, but he has some time yet before he allows himself to touch.

His back arches up off the bed, as he tweaks his nipples, teasing them. Sebastian has such long, delicate fingers, and Albus is absolutely certain they’d feel like silk against his fevered skin. He bites back a moan, it’s too soon for that, and thrusts his hips up on the first refrain. His cock bobs, and as Sebastian all but whispers that he _just got away with it_ , Albus can’t wait any longer. He wraps a hand around his cock, starting a slow, even rhythm with just enough pressure to make his thighs quiver with need. His hips buck up and he begins to fuck his fist, building to the climax of the song.

“Fuck,” he exhales, and his head lolls back against the pillows. He’s nearly there, so he slows down again, letting go of his cock and raising a hand to his mouth. He sucks two fingers in, laving at his own skin, imagining what it would be like to wrap his lips around Sebastian’s cock. Then, as Sebastian’s voice fades away into the instrumental section and _Bad Faith_ tease him to the heights again, Albus raises his hips and circles his hole with a slickened finger, teasing himself until Sebastian starts to sing again. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he breathes over and over as he breaches himself first with one, then a second finger.

He can never quite get the angle right with just his fingers, so he fists his cock with his other hand once more. The time for delicacy is over -- the need has built to a frenzy, and Albus works himself open and tugs on his cock until, just as the last notes play, he cries out and comes, painting his chest with his own release.

Albus hates the come down. It always makes him feel so sad, and he knows it’s odd to go from the heights of ecstasy to the depths of despair in such a short period of time, but in the moments after Sebastian makes him come, he has to face the fact that it’s never happened in real life and it’s highly unlikely ever to happen.

He reaches for his wand and, after casting a charm to clean himself up, he leans over the bed to shut off the record player.

\-- -- -- --

The corridors are mostly deserted, for which Albus is thankful, as he idly wanders through his evening on patrol. Sally Chung has long since abandoned him to get into one of her legendary fights with her boyfriend, but he really doesn’t mind. She’s far too chatty for his liking, and anyway, he’d always rather patrol alone. He likes to be alone with his thoughts.

He hums softly to himself, flicking his wand to flutter the heavy damask curtains where he knows a certain pair of Gryffindors like to snog, but when no one emerges, he moves on and starts singing.

“ _I walk like a rat, crawl like a cat, sting like a bee_ \--”

“-- _babe, I wanna be your maaaaaaan_!” finishes Gethin Davies, as he appears at Albus’s side.

“You’re too tone-deaf to sing that song,” Albus complains, but he’s not actually all that put out. He bumps Gethin’s hip with his own. “Aren’t you supposed to be finishing that essay for Defense?”

With an aggressive roll of his eyes, Gethin flounces ahead a few steps, then turns and draws his wand on Albus. “All done. Got Stebbins to do it,” he replies, laughing.

Albus makes quick work of disarming his friend and twirls the won wand between his fingers. “Gev, you’re going to be bloody useless when we get out of here if you keep getting people to do your work for you,” he warns, before tossing back the wand and then slinging an arm around Gethin’s shoulders.

“Be nice to me, love, I’ve had such a hard day as it is!” Gethin leans into Albus more and more heavily as they walk until Al’s knees nearly buckle. Gethin uses the opportunity to pull Albus sideways and trap him against the wall. “Malfoy, that utter tit, nearly busted me for being _out-of-bounds_.”

Albus smirks, unable to help himself. Gethin always pouts so prettily. “To be fair, you are out-of-bounds. In fact, you’re almost always out-of-bounds, and Malfoy’s only doing his job … just like me.”

“He’s got such a stick up his arse, I swear,” Gev says, leaning in a little and brushing his lips against Albus’s own.

“Or maybe he needs one,” Albus says, rolling his hips and delighting in Gethin’s hiss of pleasure. “I’ve always sort of wondered about him, you know?”

“As far as I know, and I know everything, our dear Head Boy is a V-I-R-G-I-N.” Gethin nudges a knee between Albus’s legs. Albus’s breath catches in his throat, as he grinds down against Gev’s leg. “But unfortunately I’ve no idea which side of the Pitch he plays for,” he adds, nuzzling at Albus’s neck.

“Might be fun to find out,” Albus replies, before rather reluctantly pushing Gethin back. “But for now, I’ve got work to do, as do you, so get your paws off me.”

“You’re no fun at all,” Gethin pouts again, but he presses his hands back on the wall on either side of Albus’s face. “It’s not like anyone’s around. Nobody’d see…” He then leans in again, lips ghosting against Albus’s and says, “I wanna suck your cock. I’ve been thinking about it all day long.”

For Albus, sex has always been such a private thing, something to be kept behind closed doors, where Sebastian can bring him to the heights of ecstasy, alone together, the music teasing him and kissing him and making him weak. But he cannot deny that the idea of Gethin’s perfectly plump lips around his cock, right out here in the hallway where anyone can catch them at it, has a certain decadent appeal. It reminds him of one of Sebastian’s interviews -- of nights on the tour, bodies all around, everyone naked and touching and fucking each other without shame or fear. “Well, when you ask me so nicely,” he then says, lips curving up into a smirk, before he presses them to Gethin’s own, licks his tongue over the seam and whimpers softly when Gethin’s clever tongue meets his own.

He supposes, as Gethin drops to his knees and nuzzles against the bulge in Albus’s trousers, that he could cast a Notice-Me-Not or some other form of disillusionment, but that naughty voice in his head insists that it’s better if someone could find them.

Gethin always takes his time, which Albus really appreciates. From their first awkward attempts, when they were still learning each other’s bodies and what each other liked, to now, some seventy or so blow jobs later, Gethin always acts like Albus’s cock is the only thing in the world that matters. He explores with nose and lips and tongue. And Albus slides his fingers into Gethin’s curly brown hair, tugs him gently, directs him, helps him find a rhythm.

But of course, it’s never Gethin that Albus really sees.

Gethin looks nothing like Sebastian, but in lust, it’s not difficult to morph Gev’s short dark hair into the black-and-red-tipped platinum of Sebastian’s long, sleek style. Gethin’s blue eyes darken and shade into the grey of stormclouds. His freckles disappear into perfect pale.

He’s beautiful, with his lips wrapped around Albus’s cock, and Albus sighs gently, a soft exhalation, even as his fingers tighten in Sebastian’s hair, urging him on. He begins carefully thrusting, fucking Sebastian’s mouth, knowing Sebastian can take it. He’s so good at it, his mouth so hot and wet and _perfect_. “Fuck,” Albus whispers, mindful that at any second, someone could come around the corner and see him with Sebastian, and the thought thrills him, makes his hips go faster, harder.

His head falls back against the wall, and he moans softly, as Sebastian pulls off and starts wanking him. “Come on, Albie, come for me,” he says, licking his swollen red lips. “Come for me!”

“I want to -- fuck! Fuck, I want to come in -- in your mouth,” Albus says, hips jerking forward. He can feel himself building towards it. He can hear the music in his head, and the steady tightening of the muscles in his thighs and stomach. Sebastian’s hot, slick mouth encircles his cock again, clamping down and pulling Albus’s orgasm from him, and it’s such a beautiful, perfect thing. It’s everything Albus could possibly want -- even if, in the logical part of his brain, lust-hazy as it might be, he knows it isn’t real.

Gethin is lost to it, his eyes closed, his mouth working, moaning around Albus’s cock, so he doesn’t see, doesn’t hear the gasp of surprise and clatter of a dropped wand.

Albus’s eyes fly open, as he jerks and stutters out his release, and his gaze meets that of Scorpius Malfoy, standing at the other side of the hallway, watching the whole scene unfold. Malfoy’s eyes are wide, hungry and horrified all at once. Albus holds his stare; he’s too far gone to stop at this point, and he can’t help himself.

And suddenly, he _sees_ it. It’s so obvious -- so completely and utterly clear that Albus can’t believe he never saw it before. It’s impossible and unbelievable that it’s been here, right under his nose for nearly seven years. It was within his reach all along.

Scorpius works his jaw as if to say something, but Gethin chooses that moment to finally pull off. “Fuck me, Albie, I’m so close,” he whines, as he presses his cock against Albus’s thigh, then his mouth against Albus’s neck. He begins to rut urgently, and Scorpius doesn’t move.

“Come for me, Gev,” Albus says, lip curling up into a smirk, as he runs a hand down and squeezes Gethin’s arse. His eyes never leave Scorpius’s until finally, when Gethin comes with a muffled grunt, Scorpius turns and dashes around the corner.

Albus doesn’t even worry that they’re going to get into trouble. He has something much more important on his mind.

\-- -- -- --

It’s right there in the liner notes from _Father Astaroth_. _This is for my son, Scor, whom I love more than you._ Albus must have read it a dozen times because he, unlike most people his age, still bought full albums rather than downloaded singles onto one of Uncle George’s wildly successful WizPlayers, but because Scorpius Malfoy had been such a non-entity in his life, he must have overlooked it every time.

Perhaps, Albus thinks, he thought nothing of the words at the time because the photo just above the dedication is of Sebastian wearing his black skeletal wings and little else. It was an easy distraction.

Albus sits in the library, pouring over an incendiary biography of the major players in the second Voldemort War and discreetly watching Scorpius at the next table over. Scorpius likes to chew on his quill and talks absently to himself despite the fact that people can hear and therefore tease him. He also has unbelievably small, cramped handwriting, which means the four-foot Charms essay he’s working on is really more like eight feet, and he doesn’t seem to care at all that he’s doing extra work. He’s really the perfect Ravenclaw, Albus supposes, which means that if he wants to use Scorpius to get to his father, Albus is going to have to outmaneuver rather than outsmart.

He wonders why Scorpius never said anything before; although Albus supposes he does understand the perils of having a famous, or infamous, father. At least Scorpius’s father has a stage name to hide behind -- Harry Potter is not and will never be just _Dad_ , and Albus is always going to be the Boy Who Lived’s middle child, the one named after a pair of dead heroes. No amount of denial or rebellion is going to change that fact. Still, being Harry Potter’s son had gained Albus widespread popularity at Hogwarts, regardless of having been Sorted Slytherin (which would always carry a bit of a stigma, no matter what anyone said), and being Sebastian Stark’s son would easily have done the same for Scorpius.

He flips back to the biography and rereads the passage about his father’s daring Room of Requirement rescue of Draco Malfoy, convicted war criminal. The artist rendering of the event paints Draco as a sneering, snivelling coward, clinging to his father’s back and openly weeping, as the flames of _Fiendfyre_ lick at their heels. His father, of course, looks every bit the hero that everyone has always told Albus Harry is. Albus wonders if any of it is even remotely true.

Gethin walks up then and sits down at Albus’s side. He always seems to appear just when Albus wants to be on his own, but Albus really doesn’t mind so much. There’s worse company, after all. “I cannot even believe that you’re still bloody working on History. You do realize that none of this is going to matter in a few months? If you haven’t gotten it down now, you’re not going to get it by NEWTs,” Gethin complains, flipping a few pages over in Albus’s book.

“Unlike you, I have plans to contribute to society once I finish school, pet,” Albus replies, even as his fingers slide over and twine with Gethin’s. His eyes remain locked on Scorpius, and he grins when Scorpius shifts slightly in his seat and begins to watch the pair of them from beneath his fringe.

“You’ve got that look.”

“I haven’t got any look,” Albus replies, not even bothering to divert his attention back to his studies from his observation of his soon-to-be prey. Gethin is like a dog with a bone whenever gossip or scheming is concerned, and while Albus has no intention whatsoever of involving him, he knows better than to attempt to lie with any kind of conviction.

Gethin’s lip curls up in a smirk. “You absolutely do have a look, and it’s the one you get when you’re scheming,” he explains. “Be a love and tell me what you’re up to.”

“I’m not up to anything, Gev.” Albus bites down on his lower lip to quell the smile that keeps threatening the more he surreptitiously watches Scorpius trying not to watch them.

Gethin shrugs and slides his hand out from under Albus’s, before getting up again. “Fine, hold out on me if you like, but the truth will always out with you. You haven’t the stomach for true Slytherin cunning, you secret bloody Gryffindor,” he practically spits.

“Oh, stop pouting. As if you haven’t got several games running behind my back,” Albus says, with a roll of his eyes. He ignores the panicked _shush_ from a pair of fifth years at the table behind them and gestures back to the chair. “Now sit down and stop being so bloody dramatic.”

“Fine,” Gethin replies, sitting down, but easily maintaining his strop, “but I’m terribly angry with you. You know I hate being left out.”

“I know, I know, and I’m oh-so-broken up about it,” Albus replies, oozing and unctuous. Sebastian has taught him many things, not the least of which is how to put on a show. And now that he knows what his audience wants, Albus knows exactly how to turn it on. He leans into Gethin, tugging him closer by the tie. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over Gethin’s own.

Gethin sighs and then presses his lips against Albus’s in a quick, conciliatory kiss. “For now, I guess.”

Albus nips gently at Gev’s lower lip, then pulls back and flicks a glance at Scorpius, and if the obvious tension in his shoulders isn’t an indication that he’s been affected by the performance, Albus doesn’t know what it could be. “By the way,” he then adds, turning back to Gethin, “I got an owl from Mum asking if I’m planning to bring home that _charming young man_ of mine for Christmas so she can finally meet you.”

“Oh God, are we at the meeting the parents bit now?” Gethin asks, and the genuine horror in his tone makes Albus laugh. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you are my favorite person in the world, but really? Isn’t it too soon for all that? I mean, we’re not … we’re friends who occasionally have sex with each other.”

Gethin couldn’t have replied with a more perfect answer. And while Gethin may be right that Albus has secret Gryffindor tendencies, for example, the ability to jump headlong into something without much preparation, he’s dead wrong in that it’s a bad thing. Because a true Slytherin is able to jump headlong into an opportunity when it presents itself and formulate a perfect plan with ease from there.

“I suppose you’re right,” Albus replies, turning to focus on his reading once more and letting just the barest hint of wistfulness color his tone. “It’s far too soon for that.”

\-- -- -- --

It was almost too easy to rid himself of Gethin’s romantic company, to the point that if Albus had thought for even a moment that Gethin was _The One_ , he might have wondered at Gev’s fidelity. But it only took a few well-placed comments and a public fight in the Slytherin common room for Gethin to declare that he “needed some space for a bit.” Albus faux-begrudgingly accepted the new terms of their arrangement, which was simply stating more explicitly that they were just friends with benefits, and eagerly moved on to the next part of his plan.

Albus shrinks his trunk and tosses it into his bag, along with that morning’s _Daily Prophet_ , his WizPlayer, headphones, deck of Snap cards, set of Gobstones and a book -- not that he has any intention of using any of them on the train-ride back to King’s Cross, unless any of it will help ingratiate him with Scorpius. Albus knows he needs to use the ride as effectively as possible; he needs to befriend Scorpius now, and a long trip back to London is going to be the best way to do it.

He watches as Gethin gives him an unreadable look, before disappearing into a cabin with Maisie, his younger sister, Sally Chung and her boyfriend, Peter. He sighs gently, and while he knows that eventually he can repair their relationship quite easily if he wants to, he wonders if he’ll even bother once he’s had Sebastian. Albus then turns and heads for the Head Girl and Boy’s cabin at the front of the train, barely managing a wave for Lily and her friends as he passes their cabin, in his single-minded focus.

Scorpius sits near the window, absently chewing on his thumb as he reads a thick tome that is spread over his lap. Albus has to stifle a snort because of course Scorpius would be face-deep in a book already. It’s no matter, though; Albus knows just how to draw attention to himself. With a soft sigh, he composes his features into an appropriately I’ve-been-broken-up-with expression that should poke at Scorpius’s natural curiosity and knocks on the door.

“Mind if I sit in here with you?” he asks, as he slides open the door and steps inside. Scorpius’s immediate bright red flush of embarrassment is quite encouraging, and Albus gives him a shy smile. “Only I was sitting alone, and I figured you were probably alone since Jessica’s staying back for the hols this year, so I thought why don’t we sit alone together?”

“Er, yes, all right, that’d be -- that’d be fine,” Scorpius manages, with only a bit of stammering, and gestures to the seat opposite.

“I promise I’ll be quiet,” Albus adds, in a playfully teasing tone, as he takes his seat and stretches his legs out along the length of the bench.

“You don’t, er that is, you don’t have--” Scorpius cuts himself off and fixes his attention studiously on his book again, and the flush that had just barely subsided when Albus walked in, crawls up his cheeks again.

Deciding to just barrel forward in his planned attack because Scorpius is making it almost too easy, Albus begins taking things out of his bag, casually and without looking at Scorpius, as he says, “You know, I never thanked you for not ratting Gev and me out a few weeks ago. It was decent of you.”

Albus keeps his casual demeanor up as the silence stretches between them, until Scorpius replies, “Don’t mention it,” almost too quietly for Albus to even hear it.

“I mean, not that any of it matters anymore because Gev’s a complete fuck-bag, and we won’t be doing anything like that again, but for what it’s worth anyway,” he continues, injecting the false bitterness into his tone, “I appreciated you keeping it to yourself. I know you didn’t have to, at all, and like I said, it was really decent of you.”

Scorpius finally looks up and meets Albus’s eyes. They are startlingly grey, and so like Sebastian’s that Albus again wonders how he could possibly have missed the fact that they were related. Albus smiles and shrugs his shoulders, and Scorpius slowly offers a soft smile back. But when he opens his mouth to reply, the train whistle blasts loud and long, and the Hogwarts Express begins to lurch forward along the track. Whatever Scorpius was going to say is lost to the moment, and he casts his eyes back down at the book in his lap.

Unconcerned, Albus takes out his WizPlayer and carefully puts his headphones into his ears. He really doesn’t have to hurry and force Scorpius into talking. He then slides down until he’s prone on the bench, skips through a few songs until he reaches “I Sold My Heart to the Junkman,” and throws an arm behind his head. He’s done some work, and he can certainly let Scorpius come to him for a bit. He knows how to provoke a reaction, after all.

Suddenly, Albus jolts up, out of a nap he hadn’t even realized he’d fallen into, when the train takes a sharp curve and jostles him from his already-precarious perch on the bench. “Fuck, you’d think with the number of years this thing has been making this bloody trip!” he cries, scrambling to catch his balance before he falls off the seat.

“It’s not the engineer’s fault that there are winding tracks,” Scorpius says. Albus tries, and fails, not to give him a withering look, but is rewarded with an ever-so-subtle smirk of Scorpius’s lips, as he continues, “And perhaps you shouldn’t have stretched yourself out like the Queen of Sheba.”

“ _King_ of Sheba,” Albus corrects quickly. “I might be a pouf, but I’m not a woman, thank you.”

An expression of acute horror quickly steals over Scorpius’s face, as he begins to stammer out an apology. “I didn’t mean -- I mean, I know you’re not a woman, that is to say, I’m really--”

“--I’m taking the piss, Scor, relax,” Albus interrupts, trying not to laugh outright. “You don’t mind if I call you _Scor_ , do you? Only I don’t suppose I’ve ever called you anything but Malfoy, and it just seems too formal, don’t you think?”

Scorpius inhales shakily, as if to calm himself down again, and nods. “My father told me that he and your father always called each other ‘Potter’ and ‘Malfoy’ back when they were in school together,” he offers, apropos of nothing that Albus can decipher, except that this is the first time Scorpius has mentioned the erstwhile object of Albus’s affections, and Albus clings to it like a dying man to a life preserver, while making a mental note to get as much information as possible from Dad when he gets home.

“I always forget that your dad and mine were in school together,” he says, and it isn’t a complete lie. He had always glazed over the sections in History of Magic that have anything to do with his dad before because, quite frankly, he’s bloody well tired of hearing about it.

“My father makes it a point not to discuss those days if he can help it,” Scorpius replies. “He says that the past is darkness. It should remain history.”

Albus knows that -- one of Sebastian’s early radio interviews was entirely about how he’d given up his past life when he went down into hell and became the demon. Albus can admit that it’s a little self-indulgent and hyperbolic now, but when he was thirteen-years-old, he would have sworn that nothing more beautiful had ever been spoken. Still, it’s such an odd thing to hear the words from Scorpius’s mouth.

“He’s not wrong,” Albus replies. “I tend to think we should live in the moment.”

Scorpius gives him a small smile. “So does my father.”

Inordinately pleased, Albus gets up and stretches his arms over his head until the joints give a satisfying pop. “So what are you reading there?” he says, on a yawn. “I really hope it’s not for classes.”

Scorpius glances down at the book in his lap, then back up at Albus, cheeks reddening once again. “Are you going to mock me if it is?” he asks quietly.

Albus chuckles and shakes his head, at Scorpius’s change in demeanor again. He decides that a change of tactic is obviously in order because embarrassing Scorpius has suddenly lost both its thrill and its novelty. In fact, the ease with which Scorpius blushes and loses his nerve is more sad than anything else, and Albus tries to recall the last time he’s spoken more than a few words with the Head Boy outside of class or in prefect meetings.

“I’m not going to mock, but I am going to encourage you to leave off at least until after Christmas,” Albus replies, as he walks over and takes a seat at Scorpius’s side. “You’re not going to melt if you take a break from constantly improving that massive brain of yours, you absolutely precious Ravenclaw swot.” His tone is playfully fond, at the last, and from the pleased smile on Scorpius’s face, Albus knows he’s got the right idea now.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Scorpius then asks.

Albus shrugs and bumps his shoulder against Scorpius’s. “Would you rather I was mean to you?”

“No, of course not, I just mean that, well,” Scorpius pauses and turns to him finally, eyes widening when he sees his proximity to Albus, “it’s not usual.” To his credit, though, he doesn’t slide away, instead holding Albus’s gaze.

“Perhaps I’m just tired of _usual_ ,” Albus replies. His eyes flick down to Scorpius’s lips, parted as they are just barely, and he briefly wonders how completely fucked up it would be if he was to just lean forward and kiss Scorpius. It might even be enough to temporarily satisfy Albus’s desire for Scorpius’s father. But he knows better. The wait will make the real thing all the more satisfying.

Scorpius raises an eyebrow, but he smiles nonetheless. “Don’t you Slytherins always have an ulterior motive when it comes to being nice to people?” he asks, teasing.

Albus lets out a surprised, pleased laugh. “You’re all right, Scor,” he says, bumping Scorpius with his shoulder again. “Now put that bloody book away. We’re going to listen to _One Spell Left_ and have a game of Exploding Snap. I will not take no for an answer.”

“Only if we can listen to anything other than _One Spell Left_. I loathe that manufactured pop nonsense,” Scorpius answers, as he closes the book and sets it aside.

“It might be manufactured, but Terry Styles is so good-looking, I don’t care.” Albus doesn’t like the boy band all that much either, but it isn’t like he can admit to being completely mad for _Bad Faith_. He lazily Summons his WizPlayer from the other bench and sets it to the speaker-function so that they can both hear. “So I’m guessing no Kitty Katt either then?”

Scorpius gives him a withering look of his own, before beginning to flick through Albus’s various playlists. “She’s even worse. I prefer my music to sound like a real live person is actually singing it, thank you very much,” he answers. “Oh!”

Albus begins shuffling the cards. “What?”

“You, er, you’re into _Bad Faith_?” Scorpius doesn’t look at him, and Albus knows he needs to tread very carefully.

“I like some of their stuff, yeah. My brother got me _Fiendfyre_ for my birthday a few years ago. I think it’s on one of my playlists, if you want,” he replies, as casually as he dares without sounding suspicious and thanking his lucky stars that it’s the only full-length album he put onto his WizPlayer. “Do you like them?”

“I do,” he answers simply and presses play on track one.

Albus barely refrains from pushing the matter, elated as he is by how easily it’s all going. “Brill, well get over here then, and deal. I’m going to kick your arse six ways to Sunday!” He grins. “I’m a Snap champion.”

Scorpius smiles shyly at him and reaches for the deck. “You’re going down, Albus,” he says.

Albus quirks his eyebrows suggestively. “We’ll see about that, Scor.”

\-- -- -- --

He can hear Lily shrieking at Mum for waking her up from his spot all the way down in the kitchen, and when he looks up across the table at his dad, they share an amused smile. Albus has to admit that it really is nice to be home, even if it sometimes seems much louder here than it does at Hogwarts.

“Eggs, kiddo?” Harry asks, as he pours himself a second cup of tea.

Albus shakes his head and picks up his toast. “I’m still pretty full from Uncle Ron’s roast last night,” he replies, as he continues to leaf through one of his old _Marvin, the Mad Muggle_ comics. “The toast will be fine, Dad.”

Harry chuckles. “He did rather out-do himself yesterday, didn’t he?”

“Mmm,” Albus makes a noncommittal noise from the back of his throat, and then comfortable silence descends between them again.

A fluttering of wings near the window draws his attention, and after Albus makes no move to go open the window, Harry pushes back from his seat to let the unfamiliar eagle owl in. He takes the owl’s burden, gently strokes its crown, and then it flies right back out the window, without waiting for a reply.

“Al?”

Albus sighs. “Yes, Dad?” he asks, trying his best to keep the annoyance from his tone. He’s not actually put out with his father, but it’s still rather bloody early in the morning, and all he wants to do is eat his breakfast and read in peace.

“It’s a Christmas card for you.” But his voice sounds funny, like he’s choked on some tea or something, and Albus looks over to see that he’s staring hard at the wax-seal on the envelope, as if it’s written in ancient Egyptian. “From the Malfoys.”

It takes every ounce of poise he’s developed over the last seven years to keep Albus from immediately rushing from his seat to get his prize, but as it is, he merely looks over and, with mild interest in his tone, says, “Really? That was nice of Scor.”

“Scor?” Harry returns to the table and, somewhat reluctantly Albus thinks, hands the envelope over to him. “I know you were asking about Malf-- Draco the other day, but I guess I didn’t realize it was because you were friends with Scorpius Malfoy.”

Albus raises an eyebrow, as he fights the curl of amusement that desperately wants to come to his lips. His information-gathering conversation with his father had been much less helpful than he’d thought it would be, as Harry had essentially just told him what Albus had already researched on his own. “Is my being friends with Scorpius a problem or something?” he asks, innocently accusing.

“No,” Harry quickly replies, shaking his head, “not at all, of course not. I just, well, I didn’t know you were close, is all.”

“We’re not too close,” Albus answers, letting the implication of _yet_ hang in the air. He looks up at his father and grins.

Harry returns the smile, albeit tentatively. “Are you and Scorpius, er, well -- never mind,” Harry cuts himself off, as a flush colors his cheeks, and returns his attention to the morning paper.

Albus laughs brightly. When it comes to himself, there’s only one thing that still causes his dad to blush like a fifteen-year-old. “We’re not shagging, Dad, don’t worry. Scorpius is just a friend. Trust me, I’m not interested in him that way,” he says, before gathering up his comics and the Christmas card. “In fact, I’m not shagging anyone at the moment, so can you tell Mum to stop dropping hints about bringing Gethin round? It’s actually long since over at this point.”

Harry sighs, exasperated, but fond. “I really wish you wouldn’t be so glib about the sex stuff with me, pal. You may almost be an adult now, but you’re always going to be my little boy, you know,” he says.

Albus puts his things back down on the table, then comes around and wraps his arms around his dad’s shoulders from behind. “I think you secretly love that I’m so honest with you about the sex stuff,” he says, muffled somewhat by the wild black hair he inherited.

Chuckling, Harry reaches behind and pats Albus’s back. “I certainly prefer it to the alternative,” he replies.

Albus presses a kiss to the top of Harry’s head, then gathers his things once more and heads out of the kitchen to go back to his room for a bit before he’s forced into family socializing time.

Once he reaches his bedroom, he quickly locks and charms the door to repel prying eyes and ears, hops onto the bed and carefully opens the envelope containing his card from Scorpius, trying to ignore the trembling in his fingers. He’s much better than that, after all, and there’s no reason why he should be this nervous or excited, or whatever the reason for his childish display of giddiness. It could, after all, be nothing more than a little note from his new friend.

“Oh, fuck,” Albus whispers, as he slips the card from the envelope. On one side reads the phrase, _Happy Christmas, from the Malfoy Family_ , in looping green script. And on the other --

They look like the type of family that comes stock when purchasing a brand-new frame from the store, with their perfectly matched blond hair and their slightly haughty, delicate features. Scorpius’s mother -- Astoria, he thinks her name is -- is wearing a set of beautiful pale blue robes that almost make her look like she’s been carved from ice, and she’s perched delicately on a leather settee. Her lips quirk into a subtle smile, before she dissolves into a laugh.

Scorpius sits on the arm of the settee, facing slightly away from her, looking at his mother and father in turn before laughing and smiling brightly for the camera. He looks more relaxed and at ease than Albus has ever seen him before. Granted, he barely knows Scorpius, but Albus is certain that whenever Scorpius is with family, he’s the most himself.

But neither of them can hold his attention for long, as he fixes his gaze on Draco. The Malfoy patriarch stands behind the settee, one hand braced out of view, hidden behind Scorpius’s body, and the other resting on his wife’s shoulder. Something draws his attention beyond the frame of the photo, and his eyes positively smolder, before he turns back to his family. His lips move as he says whatever it was that made Scorpius and Astoria laugh, and then he smiles. It’s all-but-blinding in its brilliance.

It is a bit hard to reconcile -- Sebastian Stark is a demon from the depths of hell, and Mr. Malfoy is Scorpius’s dear old dad, but Albus wants him, nonetheless. He’s aware that it’s possibly a little wrong, possibly a little bordering-on-obsession, but he doesn’t care. Albus wants what he wants, and he’s going to get it. Now that it is within his reach, he’s going to have it.

His heart pounds in his chest, as he urgently plunges a hand into his pants and begins stroking his painfully hard cock. He doesn’t have the time to get out the record player and tease himself the way Sebastian always teases him so well. Albus doesn’t need it this time -- all he needs is Draco’s smile.

Moments later, he inhales shakily and smoothes his hand down his stomach through his release. With a smile, he presses the photograph to his chest. “Soon,” he sighs out. “It won’t be long now.”

\-- -- -- --

Albus can barely contain himself, nearly knocking over a pair of firsties who just will not get out of the way in his haste to get back to his dormitory. He clutches the envelope to his chest, completely ignores a greeting from someone and flies up the stairs to his bedroom. He’s only been off the train for ten minutes, but the strain of having to keep himself in check throughout the train-ride back to Hogwarts with Scorpius has been almost impossible to handle. He knows that what he really needs is someone who will not be put off by his mad behavior, and since the owls they had exchanged over the holiday break at least made it seem to Albus that Gethin was no longer angry with him, or more likely, just wants to start shagging again, he knows that Gethin is the first person with whom he needs to share this unbelievable, amazing, earth-shattering news.

“Gev!” he shouts, “you are not going to fucking believe what amazing and extraordinary and fabulous people my parents are!”

Gethin looks up from unpacking his trunk and grins. “What have they done now?” he asks, before getting up and sitting down on the edge of his bed. “Built another orphanage or set up a scholarship for needy tweens?”

“Don’t be daft,” Albus replies and straddles his lap. “My absolutely fantastic parents have given me the greatest gift in the history of gifts.”

“A golden vibrator shaped like my cock?”

Albus laughs at that and wraps his arms around Gethin’s neck. “Better, if you can believe it.”

“Well now I’m terribly curious,” Gethin replies and begins mouthing softly at Albus’s jawline and neck. “Although, if it’s got you back in my lap where you belong,” he nips at Albus’s earlobe, “I almost don’t care what it is, as long as you’ve got it.”

“Stop pawing me a moment and listen,” Albus says, sliding back just enough so that they can have a conversation. “Mum and Dad got me,” he pauses and a grin spreads from ear to ear, “two front-row tickets to see _Bad Faith_ two weeks before NEWTs in Hogsmeade!”

“Merlin’s tits, are you serious?” The expression on Gethin’s face is so adorable that Albus can’t help but laugh. “No, you’ve got to be joking. The show sold out in seconds! How did they -- wait, of course they got tickets, it’s Harry bloody Potter and his Quidditch star wife, Ginny.” Gethin sighs gently. “Being famous is the best.”

Albus carefully extricates himself from Gethin’s lap and then flops on the bed next to him. He’s been grinning giddily since he opened his present on Christmas morning, planning exactly what he’s going to say the moment he finally meets Draco and dreaming of all the things Draco is going to do to him. He inhales shakily and closes his eyes -- just the thought of it is enough to send blood rushing to his overactive cock. “I just, fuck, Gev, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m going to see them. I’m going to be sitting right there, right in the front row, just meters away from him.”

“Sebastian Stark, up close and personal,” Gethin says, propping himself up on an elbow and letting his other hand drift along Albus’s stomach. “God, it’s going to be so fucking hot. I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off you.”

Albus quickly sits up at that, sobering (but only just) and turning to look Gethin straight on. He supposes it’s best to just rip the plaster off quickly, but the sudden and ill-timed guilt that he feels keeps the words in his mouth for just a moment longer. He can’t bring Gethin to see _Bad Faith_ , even though Gev’s just as big of a fan as he, himself is. But if he wants Sebastian, wants _Draco_ , then he needs to bring Scorpius. Scorpius is the key. Gethin will only distract Albus from what he wants.

“You are … you are taking me, aren’t you?” Gethin asks, noticing the seriousness that has stolen over Albus’s face.

“I’m going to bring Scor, if he’ll go with me,” Albus answers evenly.

Gethin raises an eyebrow as a nasty smile comes to his face. “ _Scor_ , yeah? You’re taking fucking Scor to see a band that you and I have loved since we were stupid little Firsties.” His tone is cold, but Albus doesn’t waver. He’s no stranger to the Slytherin defense mechanism of cloaking oneself in icy condescension. “Isn’t that just the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard? Poor little friendless Malfoy has found himself a champion.”

Albus narrows his eyes. “Don’t be like that.”

“How’s his cock taste? Better than mine?” Gethin gets up off the bed to loom over Albus. He’s a head taller, and so he appears even larger than life from Albus’s vantage point. “Does he tremble all sweetly for you and cry when you get inside?”

“Stop it! Don’t be nasty,” Albus cries, rising so that his chest is pressed against Gethin’s. He bumps Gev back a bit and they stand, glaring at one another for a long moment. Then, just as quickly as it began, the fight leaves Gethin and he droops forward, arms over Albus’s shoulders and forehead pressed against Albus’s own and eyes closed. Albus lets his arms come around Gethin’s waist. “It isn’t like that between us, and I think you know it. In fact,” he continues, voice even, “you’re much smarter than you always let on, and I think you know why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

“I don’t,” Gethin says quietly, pulling back to look at Albus once more. “But whatever. We all have our games, I suppose.”

Albus opens his mouth to agree, when something suddenly twists in his gut and he realizes that it’s no longer a game, if it even ever was. It’s not something that’s meant to be amusing briefly and then forgotten just as quickly. It’s important in a way that the casual flings and silly crushes of his youth were never important. It makes absolutely no logical sense -- how can he possibly love someone he’s never even met? But he does. He longs for Draco in a way he’s never longed for anything, and even though he has absolutely no idea how his advances will be met, he’s absolutely certain that he has to try.

Frowning gently, Albus steps back to sit on the bed once more. Gethin takes a seat next to him without prompting, but says nothing, uncharacteristically sensitive. After a long moment, Albus turns and says, “I’m sorry I’ve been … how I’ve been. But I can’t stop now. I’m so close. I can’t stop now.” He then lays his head down on Gethin’s shoulder and closes his eyes against the storm of emotions that suddenly and fiercely begins raging inside his head.

\-- -- -- --

Distantly, Albus knows he shouldn’t be staring so hungrily at Scorpius, as the Head Boy doles out patrolling assignments during their prefect meeting, but the gnawing ache in his gut at the knowledge that Scorpius has total and complete access to the one thing that Albus has wanted for so long refuses to be sated anymore by intense wanking. He almost caved and grovelled to Gethin, craving someone else’s touch, but ultimately, he refused to become so pathetic that he was reduced to using someone so blatantly. After all, Gethin is still his best friend, and Albus can’t imagine finishing out the rest of his time at Hogwarts without Gethin at his side. He’s pushed far enough already, and he cannot push anymore without breaking.

Still, the need has become paramount. Draco is there, dancing at the edge of his reach. Albus can practically taste him, though they’ve never met. He’s spent years getting to know the demon, and now he’s ready to know the man.

“If you have any need to switch your assignments, please see Jessica to make arrangements in a timely fashion. But with NEWT and OWL examinations rapidly approaching, we are looking to our Sixth Year prefects to take on some extra responsibility. Any further questions?” Scorpius says, all business until he glances in Albus’s direction and a discreet flush comes to his cheeks. Albus quickly glances away and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “All right, then, you’re all, er, you’re dismissed,” Scorpius finishes.

The rest of the group disperses rather quickly, to return to their own common rooms, but Albus crosses the room and flops down on the couch. “Hang out with me tonight,” he demands, as he reaches for Scorpius’s WizPlayer.

“I’ve got some revising to do … and if I’m not mistaken, so do you,” he replies, carefully not looking at Albus.

“Fuck revising. We’ve got ages until the exams.” Albus flicks through Scorpius’s playlists until he lands on one with at least a few songs he recognizes. He turns on the speaker function and presses play. “And you’re plenty smart enough,” he adds, glancing up with a winning smile.

“We do not have ages until the exams!” Scorpius turns to him, running a hand through his hair and pushing his fringe back from his forehead, sighing in frustration. “Albie, I can’t have you distracting me tonight. And besides, I’ve hung out with you almost every night since we got back from Christmas!”

The shudder that rocks Albus when Scorpius calls him _Albie_ is almost sinful in its decadence. He feels the name all throughout his body, immediately traveling through his veins and settling in his cock. It’s what he imagines Draco will call him when they’re together, what he’s always imagined Sebastian will want to call him -- a diminutive pet name, perhaps, but perfectly intimate.

“Are you, er--” Scorpius cuts himself off, like he so often does when he’s afraid he’s misstepped, and starts to shut down, but Albus reaches out and takes his hand, tugs him over to the couch and makes him sit down. “I really think we should--”

“Will you please stop thinking so much for once?” Albus interrupts him, a finger pressed to his mouth, and it takes every ounce of self-control that Albus possesses not to trace that finger along those perfect, familiar lips, then replace it with his own. He takes a quick, calming breath in and out, then sits back. “Just hang out with me tonight,” he continues, quietly, inwardly reminding himself that nothing will compare to the real thing, once he has it within his grasp.

It still surprises Albus how quickly he was able to cement a relationship with Scorpius, but then again, Scorpius had never really had all that many friends here at school. What surprises him more, perhaps, is how much he actually does like Scorpius as a person. Admittedly, there are the inappropriate and misplaced pangs of lust, but aside from that, Scorpius is kind and smart and surprisingly funny when he wants to be. They have plenty in common besides the obvious, and Albus thinks that perhaps if he’d just opened his eyes a little bit sooner, he’d have had Scorpius at his side all throughout school.

But then, of course, he’d have had Draco too.

“All right,” Scorpius then says, his voice barely above a whisper, and Albus knows that he really needs to get control of the situation before both of them succumb to something that neither really wants. It’s nobody’s fault really -- Scorpius has a crush on Monica Guerra, some cute little Ravenclaw Sixth Year, but he’s never been with anyone, so Albus doesn’t blame him for being hard up for it and, well, Albus just needs some relief. But they need to stop before the door opens. “So what do you want to do?”

“Let’s go for a walk or something,” Albus says, rising from the couch. “It’s probably a really nice night.”

With that, the spell is broken, thankfully, and Scorpius rolls his eyes. “It’s bloody raining outside,” he says, and reaches for his WizPlayer. “And anyway, there’s actually something I have been wanting to play for you. It’s, well … just listen.”

The song begins, and though Albus has never heard it before, it’s as warm and familiar as a security blanket. He would recognize them anywhere.

_It's the darkest hour, you're 22_  
The voice of youth, the hour of dread  
It's the darkest hour, and your voice is new  
Love is lost, and lost is love. 

“Is this...?” he asks, flicking a glance to Scorpius, who nods in the affirmative as a tentative smile comes to his lips.

His body sings, right along with Sebastian, blood quickening and heart beating. He’s certain he must look a complete spectacle. He wants so badly to touch himself, touch Scorpius, touch anything. He’s alive with an absolute need for the kind of release that only Sebastian has ever been able to give him. He’s practically frantic with the urge to come, and he while he knows that Scorpius can see it, he cannot bring himself to care.

The music tugs at his soul, and he’s absolutely certain that he could drown in it. That Draco has made this incredible thing, and that Scorpius is sharing it with him, is such a beautiful gift. Albus almost cannot control himself any longer. He thinks he might cry. He thinks he might simply die. And he knows, more than ever, that it might not be healthy or right, and he might get in trouble with any number of different people, but it simply doesn’t matter. Because Draco is there in his heart, and Albus will not let go.

“God, it’s … it’s everything,” Albus manages to breathe out.

“Isn’t it?” Scorpius replies. “This is going to be their best album yet. Father is … he’s really proud of it.”

Albus freezes, Scorpius’s words having the exact effect of being doused by a bucket of ice-water.

A long, uncomfortable moment passes, and Albus can hear the blood rushing in his ears at being found out, until Scorpius says, “I know you know, Albie. I’m not stupid. And, well, it isn’t the most well-kept secret.” He shrugs softly. “Father never gave interviews or made appearances as anyone other than Sebastian, once he was released from Azkaban and formed the band, but well … you figured it out, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Albus says quietly, unable to lie.

“The glamours he uses are really subtle, and his story is there in the music, so it shouldn’t be surprising that people figured it out. He never tried to hide … just change a little, I guess.” Scorpius briefly pauses, smiling ruefully, and adds, “Father always said that he assumed your father would have told you all about him and then told you to stay away from me because of it.”

“That’s not true at all!” Albus quickly interjects. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know for all this time, and then when I finally saw, I--” He cuts himself off, and realizes that he’s about to admit the extent of his mad plan. But then, he’s always been honest. His cunning has never kept him from generally being truthful about his desires and his needs because he’s always felt that wriggling mass of doubt and guilt in his gut.

And Scorpius deserves to know the truth because Draco is Scorpius’s father before he is anything else. This is Scorpius’s family that Albus is wilfully trying to infiltrate. His stomach twists again when faced with the gravity of what he’s been on about all these weeks, and it must show on his face, because Scorpius’s lips twist into a little frown of concern.

“I’m sorry,” Albus says simply. “I’ve been rotten.”

Scorpius surprises him then, with a light laugh and a smile. “You have a little,” he says, “but if it had to be the fact that you’re obviously really into my father to make us become friends, then I’ll still take it. I like you, Albie. You’re kind of an arse, but you’re still all right, poor attempt at manipulation aside.”

Albus flushes lightly at that. “You’re not angry?” Scorpius shakes his head in the negative, and Albus can’t help but laugh in disbelief. “I’d be angry, if it was me.”

Scorpius sobers then, and he climbs off his bed to sit down on the floor next to Albus. After a moment, he moves again, lying down and putting his head in Albus’s lap. Albus’s heart speeds up at the intimacy of it, but Scorpius just settles there and looks up at Albus, eyes determined but trusting. Quite before Albus even realizes what he’s doing, his fingers come to thread through Scorpius’s hair, and they both relax.

“My family has never been the most normal,” Scorpius then begins, his tone quiet and introspective, and Albus listens, scarcely daring to breathe. “And it took me a long time, too long really, to realize that just because something isn’t what most people consider ‘normal,’ it doesn’t mean that that something is wrong or bad.”

“What do you mean?” Albus asks, fingers stilling.

“I mean, that I know you want my father … really want him, and you think I should be angry or disgusted with you for that and for trying to use me to get to him, but I’m not.” He sighs gently then and closes his eyes, and Albus resumes petting his hair. “Well, perhaps a little for the ‘using me’ bit.”

“Gev told me not long ago that I didn’t have the stomach for the kind of cunning for which we Slytherins are supposed to be famous,” Albus says softly.

“Like that’s a bad thing?” Scorpius replies, gently teasing.

Albus bites his lip to quell a smile. “I suppose not.”

“The point is,” Scorpius continues, all logic once again, “that when we go to my father’s concert next week, I’m going to bring you backstage to meet him, and I’m not going to be upset about whatever happens between you, if anything. As long as you’re still my friend when you come out the other side.”

Albus’s breath catches in his throat, and after a long, unsettled moment, he has trouble getting out, “How can you possibly mean that? What about your mother? Fuck!” The weight of it all comes crashing down hard, and Albus can feel the anxiety racing through his veins and settling uncomfortably in his chest.

“I mean it because I feel it, all right? And as for Mother, her boyfriend and his wife and his wife’s girlfriend all live with us in the Manor. Mother loves Father, but she also loves them, and she, more than anyone, will understand your feelings.” Scorpius pauses, a smile coming back to his lips. “Father always says that sometimes hearts have too much love to just share with one other person.”

Albus doesn’t know what to think about any of that. It’s too much all at once, and the only thing he can focus on is the fact that quiet, shy little Scorpius Malfoy to whom he wouldn’t have given a second thought only weeks earlier, is a better person than he could have possibly ever imagined. “Scor, how can you not think I’m a terrible person?” he finally says, unable to meet Scorpius’s eyes.

Scorpius sits up again and grips Albus by the shoulders, forcing him to confront what’s happening. “It’s not terrible to want something, Albie.”

“How can you be so sure?” Albus asks.

“Because I wanted a friend like you, and yes, the circumstances that led us here are not exactly ideal, but they aren’t wrong just because they aren’t normal,” he explains, eyes searching Albus’s own for understanding. “Normal is totally fucking overrated.”

Scorpius is practically panting from the vehemence of his little speech, and suddenly cheered, Albus begins to laugh. “Did you just say ‘fuck’? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say fuck before. I love it!” he says, between giggles.

“Prat,” Scorpius replies and cuffs Albus on the shoulder. “So, existential crisis averted?”

Albus takes a deep breath in and out, settling his mirth. The anxiety has faded, and now all that is left is an overwhelming fondness for the boy before him, as well as the slightly terrifying, but mostly exciting knowledge that next week, he’s going to come face to face with what he wants -- and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. “Yeah,” he says, “I think so.”

\-- -- -- --

Despite what Albus may have thought, the nerves and excitement he’s been alternating between all day long have settled into a strange almost out-of-body calm. At any moment now, Draco is going to come slinking onto the stage, wearing the costume of Sebastian Stark and stealing the very life-force holding Albus together. If he wants to, he can reach out and he’ll be able to touch Draco, so close to the stage are they seated.

Scorpius’s fingers dance against his, as they stand side by side waiting for the lights to dim. The crowd in the theatre is rowdy, chanting _Bad Faith_ over and over until it’s a dull roar rushing overhead. Albus can barely hear anything over the pounding of his heart. It’s coming, something momentous is coming, and he knows somehow that everything in his life is on the verge of turning completely upside down.

Someone bumps against his side and tries to offer a tablet of what Albus assumes is Mandy, and he shakes his head. He wants a clear head for this, and besides, Draco has always had the power to make him feel high without any illicit substances.

Suddenly, a powerful _Nox_ throws the theatre into total darkness, and a guitar chord rings out loud and clear. Albus grabs Scorpius’s hand and laces their fingers together, unable to help himself. “Oh fucking Merlin,” he whispers, as a single spotlight illuminates the stage. The theatre has become deadly silent except for the lingering whine of the chord. Then, the applause begins, and the chanting starts up anew, this time with everyone shouting “Sebastian, Sebastian, Sebastian!”

Just as the cheering reaches a frenzy, the crack of _Apparation_ sounds and then Sebastian is there, stark in silhouette against the brightness of the spotlight.

He’s wearing a pair of black leather trousers and his skeletal black wings, with his arms extended skyward. “ _Friends say it’s fiiiiiiiiiine_ ,” Sebastian practically purrs, wriggling his hips in time with the cymbal rolls. “ _Friends say it’s gooooooood_.” Then, the intro crescendos, and he raises his hands over his head again, urging the audience to clap along with the beat, before dropping to his knees and slinking forward like a cat towards the edge of the stage.

Albus lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding and sags against Scorpius in relief. Scorpius catches him with a laugh. “He’s fucking magnificent!” Albus yells in his ear to be heard over the roar.

“Stop eye-shagging my father in front of me!” Scorpius yells back, but he’s grinning widely, as he hugs Albus briefly before turning back to face the stage. Albus settles in at his side and just lets the beauty and enormity of _Bad Faith_ wash over him.

It’s all too soon that the last chords of “Personality Crisis” die out, and Scorpius is tugging at Albus’s hand, leading him towards the roped off area that will take them backstage to see Draco. Albus curls his fingers into fists to attempt to quell the shaking. He’s nervous and excited, and he’s been hard as diamonds for nearly an hour, and he’s fairly certain that he’s going to be sick, and the rope is being pulled back to let them in, and Albus is absolutely positive that he’s going to faint.

“Come on, Albie,” Scorpius says, as they pass another bodyguard who opens the door to Draco’s dressing room. “I want you to meet my father.”

Albus steps through the door, with Scorpius just behind him, and immediately glances around. For a temporary space, it’s quite homey-looking, with a squashy couch and armchair, a table bearing a fruit basket and more chocolate than anyone could ever need and several lamps with colorful scarves placed over them to soften the light. Scorpius moves forward and seats himself on the couch, leaving Albus to continue standing, somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the room. But before Scorpius can invite Albus to sit down as well, the door to an en suite opens and out walks Draco, or rather, out walks Sebastian, as he’s still clad in his leather trousers and wings, with the red-and-black tipped hair and the blood red eyes.

“What do we have here?” he asks, his voice low and appraising. Gooseflesh pimples Albus’s skin, as Sebastian looks him up and down. “Are you for --”

“-- hello, Father.” Scorpius pipes up, looking very carefully away as a flush begins to rise up his neck and cheeks.

“Scor?” As if a _Finite_ has been cast, Sebastian disappears, and Draco is there, grinning widely and hurrying to the couch to sit next to his son. “I didn’t know you were coming!” He frowns gently, as he grasps Scorpius by the chin and looks him in the eyes. “Your exams are next week, young man. You should be revising, not gallivanting after some washed-up rock star.”

Scorpius laughs. “Were you at some different show? Because I didn’t see anything even remotely resembling ‘washed-up,’ Father. You were amazing, as you always are.”

“Stop buttering me up. I’m very put out,” Draco says, but the look on his face and the brightness in his tone betray that he’s extremely pleased. “All Outstandings, or I’m locking you in your bedroom until you’re thirty.”

“Stop saying things you don’t mean,” Scorpius replies, rolling his eyes. “Now, Father, I want you to meet my friend. This is Albie, er, I mean, Albus. Potter.”

Draco’s gaze flicks back to Albus, and despite the red glamour in his eyes, Albus sees the spark of desire in them. It spurs him on, reminds him why he’s here and chases away any doubts he might have had. “Hello, Mr. Malfoy,” he says quietly, stepping forward and extending his hand. “You can call me Albie. It’s really nice to meet you finally.” He drops his gaze to Draco’s lips, briefly, then raises it again to his demonic eyes and smiles sweetly.

“Albus Potter,” Draco echoes and takes Albus’s hand in his own. It’s slender, like Scorpius’s hand, and warm, and he knows it’s probably a cliche, but Albus swears a jolt goes through him at the contact. “The pleasure is all mine.” Draco doesn’t let go.

He barely even hears Scorpius get up and announce that he’s returning to Hogwarts. Everything is rushing in Albus’s head, as Draco strokes his thumb softly over Albus’s own. He almost cannot believe that this is finally happening, and it isn’t until the door shuts and they’re alone in the room together that he feels like he can relax and take what he wants.

“You look like your father,” Draco then says, as he turns and walks over to the couch. “Minus the freckles, of course. Although they suit you nicely.”

“Thank you,” Albus says. “But I don’t want to talk about my father, if that’s all right with you.”

“It’s more than all right,” Draco replies, and Albus can hear the smile in it. “Harry Potter is my least favorite topic of conversation. So what would you like to talk about instead?”

“To be honest, sir,” Albus drawls the last, thrilling at the flash of desire he sees once more in Draco’s altered eyes, “I don’t much want to talk about anything.”

“Then come here, Albie,” Draco says, his voice low and predatory once more. “Come and sit with me.”

Albus walks over slowly, taking his time to savor the moment that he’s been waiting for, watching as Draco sits back languidly and rests an arm over the back of the couch. “I’ve wanted you a long time,” Albus says, as he drops carefully to his knees and crawls between Draco’s legs. “For as long as I can remember. I feel like I was _made_ for you.”

Draco inhales sharply, as Albus trails hands up Draco’s inner thighs, the leather buttery-soft beneath his fingers, but nothing, he imagines, like the skin beneath. “Is that so?” Draco exhales and reaches a hand to tangle into Albus’s hair. “You were made for me?”

“Yes,” Albus replies, leaning forward and pausing, looking up through his eyelashes, as his hands continue their crawl. 

“And whatever did I do to deserve such a … gift?” Draco asks. “I’m a demon, remember? I don’t deserve such lovely things.

Albus pulls back at that, gets up and straddles Draco’s legs. He’s hard, and so is Draco, and the feel of Draco’s cock against his own, even through layers of fabric, draws a shuddering breath from his lips. He rolls his hips, grinding down against Draco. “You deserve everything,” he says shakily. “And you’re not a demon, Draco.”

Draco’s eyes fly open and he stills. “Yes, I am -- I mean, isn’t this what you want?” He sounds so unsure, and so like Scorpius sometimes gets, that something clenches in Albus’s chest, but he presses forward nonetheless. Albus knows what he wants. It may have began with Sebastian, but it will end with Draco.

Wordlessly, he strips off the black t-shirt he’s wearing and then lifts his hips to carefully withdraw his wand from his jeans pocket. With a whispered _Finite_ , Draco’s glamours fall away. His demonic red eyes clear to grey, and black-and-red tips disappear from perfectly platinum hair, the hairline thinning ever so at the temples. Laugh-lines appear at Draco’s lips, and his forehead creases with little worry-lines. 

Draco’s eyes are wide, searching Albus’s face for judgment or scorn at seeing him as Draco, rather than as Sebastian. Albus simply leans forward again and presses his lips to Draco’s own. Draco makes a half-strangled noise in the back of his throat, but then wraps his arms tightly around Albus’s back, tugging him closer and slipping his tongue into Albus’s mouth.

Breathless, Albus pulls back. “I want you, Draco. I want _you_ ,” he says, looking searchingly over Draco’s face, waiting for permission or acceptance or something he can’t put a name to that will let Draco see just how much he’s wanted, even as himself.

Draco leans in and presses his lips to Albus’s forehead, a gentle, sweet kiss. “Then you’ll have me,” he says quietly and begins to trail kisses from Albus’s forehead down over his nose until he reaches his lips again. He kisses Albus, slowly this time, savoring, and Albus becomes boneless in his arms, melting into it.

It’s not what he expected from Sebastian, this tenderness, or Draco either, but it’s perfect in its imperfection because it’s _real_. It’s not a fantasy or a story that he’s using to get himself off in the loneliness of his bedroom. Draco is solid and firm beneath him, and Albus is overcome with the need to have Draco sink deeply into his body and never come out again.

The amused laugh that Draco lets go, as Albus struggles to tug his leather trousers down and off, makes Albus shyly smile. “Don’t laugh at me,” he says, not meaning a word of it.

“I’ll do as I please, Albie,” Draco replies, and once he’s free of the leather, he tugs Albus back again and carefully undoes the flies of his jeans. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“It’s what I want.” Albus swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry as he takes in the knobbly knees, the scar on his inner thigh and the dusting of fine, blond hair on Draco’s thighs. “I want everything,” he continues.

“And what kind of a terror would I be if I didn’t give you what you want,” Draco answers, his voice suddenly faint. It may have something to do with the fact that Albus neglected to wear any pants beneath his jeans. His cock is hard and leaking at the tip -- he’s been ready for this practically since the first chord sounded, and any self-consciousness he might feel disappears completely under the heat of Draco’s gaze. “Look at you,” Draco adds, under his breath as if to himself.

“Touch me,” Albus says.

Draco reaches forward and wraps slender fingers around Albus’s cock without further preamble. His hand is hot, as he begins to stroke, and Albus bites down on his lower lip with the strain of not coming at just the barest touch like some randy teenage boy -- even if that is what he is. He’s better than that, and he wants this perfect moment to last for as long as he can have it.

“You want me,” Draco then says, pulling away just long enough to remove his own pants. “You want _me_.”

“Oh, fuck, I want you,” Albus moans, all but rushing forward and straddling Draco’s lap again.

Draco reaches a hand between them, wrapping their cocks together in his fist and beginning a languorous, slow stroke up and down. “Tell me again. Tell me you want me,” he says, in a low, strained voice.

Albus cannot think, doesn’t know if he can speak. All he can do is feel, the velvety slide of Draco’s cock against his own, the delicious friction against his hands and the overwhelming pleasure blooming in his chest, tightening his muscles and pushing him towards release. He’s never felt this way before, not with anyone -- not even with Sebastian alone in his bedroom. This is new, and he feels it acutely.

“Tell me,” Draco urges, on a grunt. With his free hand, he wandlessly (and extremely impressively) Summons a small jar from a little table near the armchair. “Albie, tell me.”

“I want you, Draco. God, Merlin, fuck I want you. I want you so much. Please, please.” He’s babbling now, but he doesn’t care. He’s too overwhelmed by sensation, and yet still, he craves more. He wants to be filled, needs it like he’s never needed anything before.

Once he’s slickened his fingers, Draco trails his free hand down Albus’s back and slides between his cheeks to teasingly circle his hole. Albus moans again and tips forward, forehead resting on Draco’s shoulder, allowing more access. “Please,” he whispers, and suddenly, everything slows down further.

“Albie,” Draco says, his finger just barely dipping inside, “look at me.”

“Draco, please,” Albus repeats, eyes wide and searching Draco’s face. It seems to be all Draco needs, and he slips his finger past the tight ring of muscle. Albus doesn’t even tense, doesn’t resist because it’s all he’s ever wanted. “Fuck, yes, please more,” he adds, and doesn’t care that he’s begging. 

“Merlin, you’re so eager for me,” Draco practically growls, as he quickly, but gently adds a second finger. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes, please!” Albus wriggles against those sinful, hot fingers, craving more. It’s everything he’s ever imagined and more, better because it’s Draco’s fingers.

Draco pulls out slowly, and Albus feels unquestionably bereft, but it doesn’t matter for long because Draco is lifting him up by the hips and slowly, carefully easing into the tight, slick heat of Albus’s hole. The noise that Albus makes then is undignified, but he hasn’t the presence of mind to care because finally, finally he feels perfectly and incredibly whole.

“Fuck,” Draco breathes, “fuck, you feel … you feel…”

They are almost too close together and the angle isn’t right, but Albus doesn’t care because he’s never felt closer to someone, never felt more whole or more wanted, and then suddenly, Draco shifts, and the angle is _perfect_ , and he’s moaning like a bitch in heat, the muscles in his stomach and thighs and arse tightening as it builds to a frenzy beneath his skin.

“Look at me, Albie,” Draco cries, as he bucks up, harder and faster, and Albus can hear in his voice that he’s so close. He’s desperate for it.

Albus doesn’t know how he manages, but he opens his eyes and they lock on Draco. Draco smiles easily, and Albus shatters.

He’s lost to it, waves of pleasure rolling through him as he rides it out. Then Draco is following him, hips pistoning up, filling Albus up, and he nearly loses himself again, knowing what it means. His eyes never leave Draco’s face, even when Draco’s fall closed as he pants out his release. Albus wants to savor everything about this moment, never let it fade, just in case this is the only time he’ll ever see it.

Slowly, he comes back to himself, heart no longer racing, hands no longer in a death grip on Draco’s shoulders. He attempts to move so that Draco can slip out, but Draco doesn’t let go, even as he softens.

“You’re shaking,” Draco says.

Albus starts, having not even noticed until Draco points it out. But he is shivering, like some schoolboy virgin, and it embarrasses him only until Draco wraps his arms around Albus and draws him against his firm chest.

Albus buries his face into the crook of Draco’s neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and spice. “I feel,” he murmurs into Draco’s skin, “different somehow.” Inside, something is raging, a torrent of emotions that mirrors his outer trembling, and it only begins to subside as Draco continues to hold him and stroke his back softly. He sighs contentedly and pulls back a bit to look up into Draco’s clear, grey eyes. “Do you?”

Draco looks startled momentarily, before a soft smile spreads his face. It’s gentle and relaxed, and it does more to reassure Albus than anything else. “I do.”

\-- -- -- --

A champagne flute dangles precariously from Albus’s fingers, as he observes the party going on around him. Astoria and her boyfriend Franz are laid out in deck chairs, taking in the beautiful early summer sunshine, while Franz’s wife Jeisa applies a suntan potion to her already deeply bronzed skin. Gethin and Scorpius race each other around the pool, while Jessica yells at them for getting her towel wet and Lily just laughs at their antics. Mum and Dad sit off to the side on a picnic blanket, talking quietly to one another.

It was a real coup getting them to the Manor in the first place, and Albus has been attempting to be as respectful as possible, though it’s been very difficult due to Draco’s inability to keep his hands to himself. The surreptitious looks that Harry keeps sending them do little to assuage Albus’s nerves about the whole thing, but he knows that even if his father isn’t exactly happy with what’s happened, he’ll always be supportive as long as Albus is happy.

And he is happy. He’s never been happier. While he had been afraid that what happened at the concert was both the beginning and the end of his relationship with Draco, the endless letters he had received in the weeks that followed until school had ended easily showed Albus that Draco hadn’t been lying when he’d said he felt different as well.

Throwing himself into Draco’s arms at King’s Cross and kissing him soundly might have been a bit much, especially considering the crowd, but nothing had ever felt more right. At least until Draco leaned in and whispered in Albus’s ear, “I think I was made for you too.”

It’s a small party, but a lovely one, and Albus raises the glass to his lips with a smile. And when those strong, slim arms slip around his waist from behind and a pleasantly pointed chin rests atop his head, his smile grows wider. “Why aren’t you in the pool with the boys?” Draco asks.

“I just ate. Aren’t you not supposed to swim for a half-hour after you’ve eaten?” he rejoins, turning in Draco’s embrace and pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat. The champagne falls easily to the ground, forgotten. “I wouldn’t want to get a cramp.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s just an old wives’ tale.”

“Oh, well in that case,” Albus says and tears away from Draco with a teasing laugh. Draco catches him by the hand and tugs him back into his embrace easily because Albus absolutely wants to be caught. “Thank you,” he adds, once he’s settled in Draco’s arms again. “For the party, I mean. NEWTs were a bloody panic, and I think we all needed a little sunshine.”

“Happy to do it,” Draco replies. “And what kind of a terror --”

“-- you’re not a terror, _Sebastian_ ,” Albus interrupts, trying to fight against the grin that always threatens to erupt when he’s so close to Draco.

“That’s right, I’m a demon,” Draco purrs, low and throaty. “And I’m taking you down into hell with me.”

“This isn’t hell, Draco,” Albus says quickly and turns in his embrace once more so that he’s facing the party. “This couldn’t be hell. Not when I’m so happy.” Draco presses a kiss to the top of Albus’s hair, and Albus can feel the smile in it. “Although I wouldn’t mind if you threw on the leather pants for a bit … so I can take them off again.”

They end up in their bedroom so quickly that Albus is almost certain that Draco just Side-Alonged them. Not, of course, that he minds.

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

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